


The Opposite of Waterfall is Firefly

by Frechi



Series: #HQAngstWeek2020 [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: "Was I ever enough?", Angsty and insecure Shirabu, Insecurities, Insecurity, Little delusional, Sports Injury, doubts, great&wise Ushijima, hella ooc -_-, phone calls/texts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frechi/pseuds/Frechi
Summary: "It still hurts," he told Taichi who had found him, asking about his good."You know that you still should come to practice, even if you can't join," he told Shirabu, wanting to make sure he knew about this very obvious thing."There's not really a point in coming if I can't train," the blonde's reply was and he sounded more distant, a little chill chiming within his voice.For a split second Taichi's forehead got wrinkly, a scowl of doubt but it was only so short to see."Well, I can't force you," he said and studied Shirabu's face a little more carefully."Just hurry and heal up quickly"He patted his shoulder in a amicable gesture while he passed him, trying to cheer him up as the injury and the restriction to play seemed to put his mood down quiet a bit.
Series: #HQAngstWeek2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994737
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	The Opposite of Waterfall is Firefly

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of HQAngstWeek:  
> •Phone calls/Texts  
> •Insecurity  
> •"Was I ever enough?"
> 
> My first time writing Shiratorizawa and my first time writing Shirabu.  
> I am so very sorry to all the Shiratorizawa fans. I messed that up, they feel so ooc but I didn't have time anymore. It's Day 2 and I only finished today. I did my best though, sorry -.-
> 
> Please do not use my work for anything!

Shirabu stared at his hands. The ball between them seemed unfamiliar. He had touched it since that game between his, now, own school and Kitagawa Daiichi. But then again, he never had that close of a connection to it.  
Yes, he was playing but he didn't even get accepted to Shiratorizawa with a sports scholarship. Volleyball was not that important to him than to most of his teammates, though it still held an importancy to him. He still was serious about it and passionate. But he knew what he wanted. And that wasn't a future as a professional volleyball player.  
Yet despite all of that, it had been fun. It always had felt good to be able to trust someone, to know that someone had his back and who trusted him just as much. If that someone wasn't Ushijima, it was Goshiki who would be there to recieve his toss.  
He was satisfied with that.  
But there was a thing that he didn't know about, a big point he had no knowledge of.  
Were they satisfied with that?  
Shirabu couldn't deny it, that he had done his best but it hadn't been enough. Had it been enough, they would have won that game.  
He had never thought that they would be defeated one day as Ushijima had said it countless times, it never had mattered who they had played against. Shiratorizawa was like a force of nature and yet....they had lost.  
Against a little squirt and his untamed gang on top of that.  
He had dreamed about playing with tall and strong players, it's what he had originally come to this school for and yet it had been this small, untalented, weak boy to defeat them?  
It was frustrating. The qualities he always had seen as weak had won over what was strong in his eyes. That fact threw his mind into a chaotic state. It had been something he had believed in for so long, having that nixed was illogical to him. And it made him angry that he wasn't finding his way out of a construct full of dead ends.  
If this major believe had been wrong, what else was?  
Practic made him uncomfortable suddenly.  
What even was he practicing for when every oh so undefined pebble could throw him off his feet?  
He was chewing his lip when he took the stance, throwing up the ball. He set it like he always did and yet....it felt wrong. He felt as if he was making mistakes, as if his tosses, each and every single one, were not right, too high, too low, too fast, too close. He adjusted himself, adjusting to his thoughts and the remembered habits of his mates. And still....although he got their usual praise, his fingers became stiff with each touch. Everytime his tips pressed the ball back up, something shot through his fingers, up his arms, damming up in his throat, forming a nausea that slowly took his ability to breathe, his ability to play. It was painfully unpleasant but he didn't stop. He refused to give in to this reluctant feeling of wanting to give up. And in exchange to it, he got more frustrated. Acrimoniously he used the sphere to let his thoughts scold him.

Wrong  
Not enough  
Higher  
Wrong again  
Do it better  
Don't be so weak  
Wrong!

He was absorbed into an obsessive tunnel where he only could see a ball, flying wrongly through the air.  
Only the whistle brought the darkness around him to an abrupt disappeareance.  
Practice was over.  
And in a way relief washed over him.  
When he put down the ball, it was as if he had given away a scorching piece of coal, his hands red and blistery, smoke escaping like steam from a pot of boiling water. He even felt pain in his palms, fingers, climbing up to his wrists and even contaminating his lower arms to a part.  
As he stared down at them, he knew he shouldn't waste his time on these tiny, little thoughts that were fretting at him. He knew he should just hit his cheeks again, not having to rely on others to fix his doubts, take himself up again, just how he had during that game.  
That game that they had lost.

A sting rammed through his chest, as if a stake had been used to exorcise him. It was so painful that his knees became wobbly and almost, just almost he had hit the ground. With a croaking voice he excused himself, saying he needed some water when in reality he just wanted to stop moving. To just be somewhere, motionless, sitting or laying, waiting for that hallucinated nothing to wear off.  
He sat down on the ground at the side of the field, bottle in his hand. His throat was dry and he probably needed the hydration yet he just froze. The way he had wished to do. He just sat there, eyes staring holes into the shining floor. He felt his heart beat, sending waves of this pain through his body, making him unable to move while the others scurried mercurially through they gym, cleaning up.  
It all just passed him and only a deep, familiar voice cut him off of this spaced out stare.

"Shirabu," Ushijima called the blonde and his face snapped up, eyes directly darting to him.  
"We are changing," he only mentioned and left.

It took a few seconds for his whole surroundings to sink in. But when they had, reattaching him to the present, he was able to recieve feelings again, different than whatever just had happened to him.  
He hurried to his legs, almost scrambling when a fear clenched him, icy hands clawing at his innermost, until he had caught up with the left-handed, changing with him and the few remaining to leave together. And he was glad as his chest didn't feel so heavy any longer. Yet there was a dot of it left behind.  
It had felt good to be able to walk next to someone he admired, their paces mingeling together until it would be only one. And he still felt pride when he could be with him. But his honesty was tainted nonetheless. He was suddenly questioning if it really was his place to be, if he belonged there. And his steps grew distant, just like his vision dissembled him distance, building up between his own feet and Ushijima's, as if he was slipping away with every step.

But the world certainly wasn't stopping for one tiny human that lived through a little struggle, he knew that. And it seemed like he also didn't have time for the world to stop for him.  
He did his best to swallow his thoughts, trying to move on. He didn't want to waste his time on what had felt so terrific. He only had to realise that it wasn't as easy as he wanted it to be. This darkening something still had a grip on him, the dot left inside him growing whenever he made contact with the coloured sphere.  
When he then picked up a random ball, his hands began hurting, a burning touch that shocked his nerves, making him drop the ball.

"Are you alright?" Semi asked with a wrinkled forehead and the silent treatment made him angry. He should have been used to Shirabu's....special behaviour towards him and practically everyone else but it still got on his nerves. He was about to complain about it but was precipitously disrupted when the blonde......just left, staring at his hands, he was going to the bathroom. And Semi only stared after him, irritated at his odd behaviour.  
Had he just ignored him?  
Yes and there was definitely something strange about it.

Shirabu, for his part, hadn't even heared his Senpai ask. The buzzing in his ears had shut out every sound around him. He was inside a tunnel again and he couldn't perceive his surroundings anymore. His feet though, remembered the way, carrying him to where his gunning heart pleaded his body to go to. There were only his stained red hands in his vision, even when he held these very hands under cold water. And he began shaking with the stinging pain that made his palms useless, the speed of his heart made his breathing accelerate until he did nothing but stare at his hands that were on fire, burning underneath the stream.

Am I not strong?

He was shaking uncontrollably like a rabbit fearing for his life. Horror was possessing his face, residing deep in his eyes.

Was I ever enough?

He couldn't play like this, he would lose his usefulness, he would lose his right for being.  
And his knees gave in, slowly he sunk to the ground while the water was still running. Wet hands closing around his body, his arms squeezing around his stomach but his fingers didn't touch. Would they have touched something, the pain would have made them turn to ashes.  
He couldn't breathe properly, it was as if soot was depositing his alveoli, clogging his chest, slowly suffocating him. The horror corded his throat, making his eyes wide, just staring again, his vision shuddering, his body, his breath. He felt as if something inside him was wilting, decaying, the life energy of this something sucked out, it was shrinking, crumbling until it was nothing but a mere heap of dead sordidness.  
His hands were burning away this part even though they weren't touching him.  
And he didn't know what was happening to him, he didn't perceive what was happening to him.  
How had he become in a mere two days?  
What had he become?

He was losing to himself, he was dissolving, the black dot eating him up inside out. And unfortunately he began doubting so much more as practice continued.  
He felt like the little mermaid, every toss hurt like he was smashing his hands into sherds, his complexion not tolerating it well, his unreasonable stubbornness and angst to lose.  
His head was spinning when his thoughts became obsessive, absorbing him into great dread.  
Once again the world around him became dark, his blaming mind pushing him further down. There was nothing there, nothing but the echo of his own voice abusing him. He couldn't get away, his voice would have been already there. And the end of it couldn't break it away completely, a greyish shadow had fallen over him, darkening his ability to see.  
His stained eyes and his irritated nerves were what made his mind suspend. He didn't even feel how the ball pushed his fingers too much in the wrong direction.

"Are you stupid? Hit that ball properly," Shirabu said in a semi-audible voice, maybe he even was saying it to himself but Goshiki's ears caught it nonetheless, thinking he was criticising him in an upsetting and a little hurtful way purposely again. But his words abruptly changed when his angered eyes fell upon who he couldn't stand.  
"Are you stupid, wanting to toss with these fingers?"  
His reply even surprised the darkette himself. But what surprised him even more was how Shirabu didn't say anything because of it, not even snapping back at him. Instead he just lifted his hand and stared at the bent part that should hurt.  
"What's wrong?" Soekawa asked quickly at the halting flow.  
"He hurt himself," Goshiki answered when Shirabu didn't. It was as if he wasn't even really present.  
But when the vice-captain pulled his hand towards himself to eye his injury, Shirabu turned his head so fast, broken out of this tunnel, it was the touch of someone who wasn't what was devouring his attention, pulling it to one point.  
His mouth wasn't complaining when he was sent to the nurse's office, providing first aid.  
His mouth wasn't complaining when the nurse forbade him from playing.  
His mouth didn't complain when she told him to see a doctor.  
His mouth wasn't complaining when he told the others and left early.  
His mouth didn't, partially being occupied with different words, it didn't complain.  
But his mind was.  
Yelling at him how he could have let that happen, how stupid he had been to make such a mistake.  
It was his own voice mincing him brutally. And it was his own voice that was objecting to it quietly, dreading the violence his angered voice was picking him apart with.  
When the doctor told him to rest his fingers, let them heal for a very too long time, it put the last nail into the coffin.  
"Six weeks," the man dressed in white said and the ringing in the blonde's ears went dead silent. The functions of his body stopped, would he have been connected to a electrocardiogram, it would have pulled the dead line.

It's okay, his shut mind spoke up again, they are better off without you. It had been you who let the squirt win.

No, no, I am their setter. They need me.

Do they? Or do you just not want to let go.

No, they....they need me, right? They should need me.

Do they?

Yes, they-

Really?

I- ...Do...do..they?

And his mind took its time to reply to his weak voice. The angry voice suddenly being awefully silent. It had left him. And he only could answer its question himself.

No. They don't.

On this rainy day.  
He gave in when the drops began falling from the heavy clouds that were darkening the world. And he began to hold himself small.  
Why?  
He knew that he shouldn't and that there was no reason for it, that this voice hadn't been right. He knew his abilities and that he could get stronger and better. But his mind didn't obey him, telling him how he should let it be, to give up. And how he was useless, his place as a regular undeserved, not his place to be, this part having latched on to him and refused to let go, it was that little dot that made him believe the truth to by wrong and the lie to be right.  
He knew about that too but he couldn't make himself not believe this little thing that had so much power over him.  
Maybe that was what made him make compress himself.  
And he couldn't deny that he willingly did it.  
He held himself small.  
Why?  
Maybe he was seeking these thoughts. To simply have a reason.  
And he felt himself being washed down the waterfall, while the world was passing him by with the speed of light. Every passing day he found new burns on his body, red parts slowly covering up all of his skin, making him twitchy when his clothes rubbed against them, making them itch and sting.  
He was trying to hide it, while he stood at the side, watching them play and collecting the balls at best. But he was very conscious of his surroundings, their judging eyes when he was reduced to a ball boy.  
He found stares following him whenever his senses weren't benumbed.  
He had told them, when they had asked, that he wouldn't know, that injuries like that could heal faster than expected or take even longer than the predicted time.  
And he learned what it was like to lie.

"Shirabu-kuuun," the red-headed called him in the midst of a break and his shrewed eyes were focused on him.  
"Are you sure you won't drop dead?"  
Teasing, cruel things to say in such a joking manner.  
"I'm fine," he replied to Tendou and he didn't feel good. He hadn't hesitated, making it part of the reason he got nauseous and dizzy, he couldn't keep his legs from staggering a bit. And he felt his Senpai stare at him, his so often mean eyes. They must have noticed.  
Why else would they watch him?  
Why else would they whisper?  
Could they see?  
How he was losing, could they see?  
Could they see how his value was decreasing still?  
And he couldn't help but feel miserable, frustrated, left alone.  
They all were moving on already, why could he not?  
His feet became more unsteady with every passing day, ever hour, he felt parts of his own slowly detaching from himself, drifting away, with every burning briquette he collected and touched.

He was falling apart.

Until he was nothing more than a heap of loose parts. And even when the doctor told him, he could return to practice if he would be careful and straining his fingers not too much, he didn't know which part he should have send as they were seperated, disconnected, not moving, working, functioning together any longer. So that he ended up sending none.  
When he should have taken it off, he put the splint back on, pretending that it wasn't time yet. And they didn't question it, they couldn't force him, especially not if his injury wasn't fully healed yet. Of course they let him recover properly.  
So he stood at the side again, watching. And he noticed their little improvements, he saw Yunohama having gotten rid of his annoying habit to crack his knuckles before a serve. Tendo had learned too, his intuition had adjusted itself to the few little times he had been wrong, his block a little more impassable. Goshiki had worked on him becoming the ace, he could see how the title fit a little more to his slightly widened shoulders. He had build some muscles. And Ushijima's spike also had become even more powerful.  
All of them had become stronger.  
But where was he?  
He was not among them.  
He had shrunken.  
Shirabu had left the court.  
He had lost the strength to stand. And it was so unbearable to be with them.  
A chain was only as strong as the weakest link.  
And he was too weak for his team to be strong again.

Could his heart have been less fragile? Could his mind have been less breakable?  
Could he have suffered less?  
Could he have been less vulnerable if he had worn an armor around his heart and his reason, an armor around his body and soul?  
Wrapped in iron and steel and titanium. He could have been a knight, serving and winning for his house.  
Had he been a little stronger, he could have held on a little longer to these strings that were now gliding through his fingers.  
The bonds he had made, when they had left the court then, he already had felt it being cut, what had bound them together slipping away with the missing strain.  
He could have been there a little longer if he would have been stronger. But the defeat was still lingering behind and it told him aweful things.

He had left the court and he wasn't coming back.

It was the next day when it happened the first time.  
His absence that now was also physical.

But his mind could not part itself completely from what he had spent his time with with that passion for so long. His thoughts tilted backwards. He caught himself thinking about when it had been fun. So to distract himself, he began to drown himself in studies, secluded himself into the most lonely corners to avoid people of who he had grown distant to, evading himself from everyone who didn't have any business with him.

Unfortunately it didn't spare him from meeting people completely.

"It still hurts," he told Taichi who had found him, asking about his good.  
"You know that you still should come to practice, even if you can't join," he told Shirabu, wanting to make sure he knew about this very obvious thing.  
"There's not really a point in coming if I can't train," the blonde's reply was and he sounded more distant, a little chill chiming within his voice.  
For a split second Taichi's forehead got wrinkly, a scowl of doubt but it was only so short to see.  
"Well, I can't force you," he said and studied Shirabu's face a little more carefully.  
"Just hurry and heal up quickly"  
He patted his shoulder in a amicable gesture while he passed him, trying to cheer him up as the injury and the restriction to play seemed to put his mood down quiet a bit.  
But for Shirabu it was everything but uplifting. And his face, just like his heart, painfully contorted. He tried to switch it off, futilely. It only got worse, this gossamer layer of shame he wore on his skin. With every time he lied the condemning gaze of his conscience grew louder in its silent stare. Until it had grown unbearable again. Avoiding practice, it was because he wouldn't return to the court even though his teammates didn't know about it. Now avoiding his members even outside of it, it was because he couldn't see them anymore, looking at him so expectant, expectations he couldn't meet.  
And his thoughts were ravaging his mind, it was out of his control.  
He limited his time on the campus as much as his scedule allowed, moving in regular intervals during breaks so that it would be harder to find him, always directly returning after classes. He even went that far, to lock his room. If someone knocked he would pretend to not be there. If it was evening, he pretended to sleep. So dark had it become already.

He endeavoured so hard to avoid and there he found the success he couldn't have before. Yet there was one thing he couldn't really avoid quietly.

The noise was not really loud but annyoing enough.

'Are you sure you're not imagining your pain?'

Taichi had texted him again and Shirabu didn't know why he still read his messages. Perhaps he felt guilty, having left them, Taichi too, just so suddenly, without telling, without even letting them know.  
He felt guilty towards him. He was propably the only one he really would call his friend among those of the team. He had felt comfortable around him, even calling him by his first name.  
And there was an urge to answer him. His hands cramped around his phone as he betrayed his friend again.  
The footing underneath his feet broke away, reducing his path to a narrow ridge.  
He put his phone away yet he couldn't bring himself to turn on flight mode.

How weak, it was his own voice but not the angry one.  
You can't even push them away properly.

And the truth of it followed very clear when his phone began buzzing again and again.  
He looked at the locked screen where the notifications popped up, reading through them.

'??'

'How about you answer?'

It was hard to ignore him, it was hard to ignore the others too but Taichi even more. Even if he had let go of these strings, it had been too late already. The bonds had already been made. And the cut ends on his end were longing and crying for the cut off parts to return.  
His unhurt hand clawed into his stomach were the ends hung loose. It was hurting there, there and to where the bonds had been attached to, his chest, his heart.  
He was startled when suddenly his phone stopped buzzing and instead rang.  
Frightened he looked at the screen again.

Call incoming, Taichi

His heartbeat tickled his throat. He wanted to puke while he fought the desire of his cut end when the ringing didn't stop.  
He closed his hands above his head, pressing his ears shut with his arms, his eyes desperately closed, they were burning like his hands had.  
He could only sit there and wait, the sound hamstringing him.  
His breath stuttered when his phone died again and relief didn't reach him with more than one fingertip.  
He was so tired. And his senses were so dull towards the world around him and yet so sensitive towards what he had let come close to him.  
And his eyes were stained by darkness when he closed them.

The world had painted over him so easily, washing away who he had been, washing away what had defined him. He hadn't been steady enough. The current of the water had swept him away like a feather in the wind. And he was still drifting along, the people at the shore were throwing things at him, messages inside untight bottles, bound to pebbles that were drowning them in the water. The words written on the papers and the pages were soaking so fast. Had he reached out, he could have caught a glance at what they had written down. But his eyes were blurry with the water's surface.

'It's been another month. Hasn't your hand healed by now?'  
-Semi

'It's time to show your face to practice again, don't you think?'  
-Ohira?

'I'm really worried. I haven't seen you for two months. Are you even still alive?'  
-Taichi

Shirabu woke up to a ton of new messages when another call was ending, the reason he had woken up in the first place, placing fear inside him first thing in the morning. It had become worse and it had only been a day from yesterday. But even so, Shirabu was scared today. Scared to leave his room.  
To his luck it was the weekend.  
But to his bad luck it was the weekend. To all the others it was weekend now too. And they didn't hesitate to kill his phone with texts and calls. It was as if they had conspired themselves against him.  
And he only sat there on his bed, his legs held close to his upper body, he was clutching himself. The ringing in his ears. It was shrill inside his head even if it was a simple tone. It hammered on his nerves more than it made him fear the words they had written on the papers, the words he didn't know yet.  
Until he snapped, not able to suppress it any longer.

"Stop! Calling me!" he exploded into the reciever. A short silence followed.  
"But I just called you now," a very familiar voice answered and Shirabu could hear the small irritated scowl.  
"Ushijima-san," his lips let the name of the person at the other side of the phone slip out.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," he apologized right away but it sounded strange. It sounded like someone else was answering. The way he spoke, it even got noticed by Shirabu himself and suddenly he became ashamed. How far was this supposed to go?  
"It's alright," Ushijima's deep voice was trying to reassure him, rather it was just doing it without trying to do it.  
"I'm just relieved that you picked up."  
But that got him even more ashamed of himself. Making Ushijima worry, why was that all he ever could do? Letting them down, disappointing them.  
And he found himself wanting to end this call. Ushijima had been someone he had admired, he had been proud of but after these....changes he wanted him to leave him alone, pleading him like the others. Just hearing his voice through the speaker was enough for him to cut even this part of his world away from himself, the admiration. He skipped practice because of that, vehemently avoiding to meet the club members. He found himself on the verge of doing even more more stupid things, things he had never even wasted a thought on if he had been still the Shirabu they alll knew, the Shirabu they wanted to return.  
But how could he?  
How could he show himself in front of everyone, in front of Ushijima?  
The guilt and shame was too great, even with just hearing his voice they had the upper hand, overflowing from his mind, like a waterfall they streamed down his body until he was tainted, stained, coloured by their dirty darkness.  
"Ushijima-san," his voice asked quietly into the silence.  
"Yes?" he heared his reply and his voice sent a stinging through his body. As he was so strong, his voice never-leaving.  
"How does it feel to move on?"

He wanted his wishes to be true, these wishes that were fading slowly, leaving his reach. Wishes like to leave behind what had so much control over him.

"How can I move on?" he asked and his voice sounded suffocated.

"But didn't you already do it?" Ushijima asked back, making Shirabu's eyes grow wide.

"If this is about your injury, it can't be helped. Your body should take its time to heal properly."

"It's not-" Shirabu said, something between a whisper and a mumble but Ushijima heared it despite its weakness and that Shirabu hadn't intended it to be heared.

"So this is about something else."

He heared something shuffling on the other side.

"I don't know from what you want to move on, you just do it. There is not much thinking, you decide it and move on."

Shirabu's breath had gone silent. Air was certainly flowing but it was so still, as if it wouldn't even reach his lungs.

"But I'm a bit confused that you are asking me. You were always one of the first to leave the matches behind. Shouldn't you know?"

Shirabu swallowed.

"I-I'm...trying to move on from something....important."

He heared the shuffling again.

"If it has that much meaning, you should make a clear cut. If you really want to leave it behind, seperate it properly."

"What do you mean with that?"

"If there are others involved, don't leave them in the cold. Dispose everything that reminds you."

It made Shirabu chew on his lip.  
He had avoided it. With everything he could give. And now he should do what he had tried to avoid so vehemently?

"Thanks," he mumbled in the microphone.  
"Sorry, I still have some homework left," were his next words.

"Of course," Ushijima understood.  
"Shirabu," the sudden call of his name made the blonde twitch.  
"Even if you can't train right now, you should come to practice again."

The next thing he heared was the flat line.  
Ushijima had hung up.  
And the abruptness of it let Shirabu soak in his thoughts again.

Could he manage to look at them?  
Could he manage to even go there?

He was afraid, knowing that he hadn't have the strength for it. But if he wanted it all to end, he needed to have this strength.

Too familiar was the feeling of nostalgia when his willing feet carried him along the well-known way. He knew that practice had started already but his chest had taken so long to be ready. It was still reluctant but barely strong enough to not be killed.  
When Shirabu stood in front of the door, something fastly moving shot into his head, his thoughts, blurred with one another, becoming a mess. It made him feel like crying, making him swallow a dry lump that was stuck. His ears began to buzz. But there was one thing that made the rapidly rising feeling of panic stop, like it was dropped dead.  
The squeaking of sport shoes. The smashing of the ball. Voices he hadn't heared for a long time yelling the usual words that, he noticed only now, he had avoided saying.  
It made him calm and his fingers pulsated with a melancholy when he touched the familiar handle.  
A waft of sweat met him, mixed with the smell of shoes and the warmth of the closed room.

Taichi was the first to notice him but he didn't seem very happy about it.  
It was a sting in his heart.

"Look who we have here," Tendou lilted and danced towards the not fully opened door.  
"If that isn't our Shirabu-kun"

His head sunk. He could barely stand their eyes, if he would have looked, he would have run for sure. But it became very clear to him, while Tendou pushed him inside, Ushijima telling the others to continue, that he couldn't run away any longer. He had made the desicion. And now he had to go through with it. Silently he sat down on the ground. His eyes were wavering. He felt the itch, begging to look up with every sound and oh were they a lot.  
One at the time he expanded his vision. Where only the floor had been, there now were the lines drawn on it. He could see pieces of shoes appearing and disappearing. The rod of the net. And balls flying back and forth. Legs entering his vision and then he failed.  
He raised his head and the sight of the practice match caused feelings he had buried deep inside oblivion, to move up, floating on the water's surface. It was overwhelming. It hurt. But he couldn't go. So he silently kept it in.  
Never had he lowered his face faster while a stinging coursed through his body, piercing him and collecting his insides.  
He heared the whistle shortly after, which was no surprise. He had come only so late after all.  
He heared the feet of his soon to be former teammates walk through the whole gym, cleaning up. When a pair of shoes entered his vision. He didn't want to look up, only to see the disappointment. And yet he did.

Goshiki looked down, locking eyes and Shirabu felt very uncomfortabel.  
"The hell have you been so long?" he asked with the intention to make him angry. He had thought that it could lift his mood which clearly seemed to be down, very far down.  
But unexpectedly did the blonde not react how he had expected. He began to scowl in irritated wonderment.  
"What's wrong with you?" he asked and his voice toned down a bit.

"Bad-" Shirabu answered a little apathatically, not knowing how much of the truth he should tell.  
"day..."

"More like months," the darkette mumbled and he saw his Senpai twitch at his words even though he hadn't intended him to hear.  
A little sigh escaped him and he never would have thought that he would find himself in this situation.  
"You know, you can always just come here. Even if you were to quit," he joked with a quiet, small laugh. But he swallowed the next moment, the words being a bit bigger than he had thought.  
"It's not the same without you. Semi-san and Yunohama-san are good but it's not the same."

Shirabu didn't want to hear it. It was making everything so much harder than it already was.

"What do you mean?" he asked nevertheless and his voice was a little choked.

"Yours feel more...familiar and trusting," the darkette answered and his voice was sure of the meaning these words held. But the little ball of a human in front of him looked little convinced.

"I know, your injury is nothing you can make heal faster but I still want you to return quickly."

"Goshiki!" coach Washijo called him, only returning now from an urgent meeting.  
"Go change."  
And Shirabu's Kouhai replied with a loud 'yes' and left the blonde behind. It was so easy for him too. To leave behind.  
Something  
Someone  
A little pile  
These words had compressed him.

"Shirabu," his name was called and he recognized the coach's voice.  
He felt heavy when he got up, although a little fretfully.

"How's your injury?" he asked when the boy had arrived at the door.  
"Still not healed," he said when he saw the splint still at his hand.  
"If this turns out to be something chronical you may have to quit."  
"I know," the boy answered while the now changed members walked past them.  
The coach nodded at him in something like agreement, knowing that Shirabu would do the right thing if it would turn out to be something worse.  
And Shirabu felt bad for disappointing him without him knowing, telling him to have a nice evening when the old man seperated from him again.

What was he supposed to do now?  
What had he even come for?  
He wanted to draw the line but in the end he hadn't achieved anything but getting their hopes up.

A pair of feet came to a halt near him. When he turned towards them he saw Taichi and his face was sour. For a moment they just looked at each other. Taichi looked angry. And Shirabu knew exactly why. He had let him down so deep.  
The urge to apologize crept up, he opened his mouth.

"Took you long enough," he was talked over before he could even say anything and Taichi sounded frustrated.

Shirabu could only bring out a little apology, making his friend react upset.

"What for? That you ignored me?"

Shirabu shrunk a little more.

"I'm not angry because of that. I'm angry because you didn't tell me about a problem you apparently can't solve yourself."

The blonde's lungs missed a breath. A question was forming on his tongue.

"I know that you are very independent. But do you know we are friends?"

Shirabu was taken aback by this blunt question.

"I-I..know," he replied and his voice was shaking a bit.

"Then do me the favour and come back properly."  
Taichi left him with the words to hang in the air, to echo in his ears. Shirabu looked down at the splint.  
He was doubting.  
That wasn't something new to his system but right now he was doubting the desicion he had made.

Did he really want to leave?

And suddenly the splint that had seemed like a protector the whole time, looked like a restraint, an ugly spot on his body. He hurried to take it off, shoving it deep into his bag.  
His heart was pounding a bit faster

"Shirabu," another voice called out to him and it made him remember why he had made that desicion in the first place.  
Ushijima was who he feared most, he made him want to leave.

"It's good that you came," he told him and his voice was so very honest.  
But Shirabu was lost again when his vocal cords wouldn't vibrate, his voice wasn't even forming. It took him a long time of silence but Ushijima waited through it for his Kouhai to speak.

"Ushijima-san, can I...can I toss to you?" he asked, barely finding the strength for his voice to ask.  
"You shouldn't with your injury-"  
"It's healed"  
The older student frowned, the question why he hadn't practiced with them then in his head but he figured that he was prescribed to take little steps.  
"Isn't it a bit late?" he replied instead. And Shirabu asked back.  
"Please?"  
He asked of him and his voice never had sounded so weak.  
Ushijima looked at the younger for a bit longer, trying to figure out what was going on in his mind.  
"If you insist," he gave in in the end and the exceedingly thankful gaze in Shirabu's eyes made him wonder. It seemed too much to feel for just some tosses.  
But Shirabu had intended it to be the clear cut for all of them. Yet he once again had failed them even in his farewell. Now it would be only the clear cut for Ushijima. Although he wasn't sure if he could tell him.

Ushijima slid open the door.  
They were engulfed in silence when they set up the net again.

Shirabu didn't hesitate. Until his Senpai passed him the ball. When he looked at the sphere, his hands suddenly began to tremble. He was afraid of the feeling, the burning he had experienced before had left a clear scar in his mind.  
With a gulp he took the ball into his own hands, his head screaming to not do it. But when he made the contact he hadn't have for so long, an abrupt silence made his ears ring with the suddenly gone noise.  
He felt the surface. And it was merely a soft volleyball.

Ushijima let go of the sphere, moving to the outer line. Shirabu got into position too, a bit slower than the older student.  
He swallowed again when he took his stance.  
The reluctancy was still present and it didn't leave when he threw the ball up, setting for his favourite spiker.

And it felt good.

Shirabu took a sip from Ushijima's bottle he had offered him. He hadn't played in so long that he clearly had slackened.  
Ushijima on the other hand, looked like he had just taken a stroll.  
Had his stamina increased?

"Will you tell me the reason?" his deep voice asked Shirabu and he guiltily warped his brows.  
He didn't know, honestly, he didn't.

"What if I told you that I...skipped practice intentionally."  
Was what he brought out, putting it in a theoratical way but he knew just how obvious it was that it was the uncouth thruth, he didn't even dare to look him in the face.  
And Ushijima stared at him with his watchful eyes that always carefully picked up the occurences around him, eyes that had been so different in the match against Karasuno, when they had been burning with a passion he had never seen at him before.  
It had made him shiver.  
It had scared him.  
And it had excited him equally.  
Those eyes were watching how he was looking past his face by just a few inches so that it would look like he was looking at his face while he wasn't.  
Shirabu feared that if he was to look at him, he would find disappointment and disdain and lost faith, he was scared that he would find....himself. A mere reflection of the horrible thing he had become, he was afraid he would hate his face too.  
But Ushijima's eyes were calm and there was nothing more in them. His lips parted slowly and Shirabu's heartbeat became painful.

"It wouldn't sound like you," his deep voice sent the words past his mouth. And his reply was so simple.

"You know how to fix yourself, you have done it countless times. You know how to avoid letting things get the better of you. So if there would have been something that would have made you leave us, it wouldn't sound like you. You would have spoken up if there would have been something. Because you would not give up your position on the court."

Hearing it all, Ushijima might have known about the truth of his confession. And yet Shirabu was not panicking, though he wasn't calm either. Inside him was still roaring the same storm, letting his head sink with confused emotions.

"I was not strong enough. I have weakened the team..."  
His head was facing the ground, shamefully, he couldn't see how Ushijima scowled irritatedly. Nonetheless he heared his incomprehension in his voice when he replied again.  
"I don't know what your presumptions are but you haven't weakened us. You would have if you would leave the team but as you haven't, I don't see what you are assuming."

It was a sting in his heart, equally painful as it was disabusing.  
His words had softened the gravity of it just a little bit, he really had needed to hear that.  
"Yeah," his reply was and it felt small, "you are right," he said and his voice trembled only so little while tears swam in his eyes, dangeroulsy close to daring to fall.  
Maybe his right had been wrong.

But against the drops they were about to spill, he felt a little lighter. He felt the rejection he had only felt towards himself leave a little.  
There was no disappointment, there was no fault. There was disdain or hate. They simply had been worried.

"Let's clean up," Ushijima said with his strong voice and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
It was the last push.

And it was hard to start again but against the waterfall his eyes spilled, he felt so much relief and acceptance, a lightness that he felt like a firefly starting to fly.


End file.
